Justice League Angst Files
by Taylor Hayes
Summary: A series of short fics involving the angst of League members. Chap1: Wally, Chap2: Bruce, Chap3: Clark, Chap4: Kyle, etc. I do take liberties with backgrounds, so don't be offend if they don't fit canon. Sorry!
1. Echoes, Wally

**Echoes**

The Flash had made a mistake, and a woman was dead. A woman who looked so similar to Wally West's mother that it had thrown him, slowed him down, and he hadn't been fast enough.

He heard the shot, watched the light blue blouse bloom with murky red, saw the expression of surprise before the slender frame crumpled. She was dead, and he hadn't saved her.

And now he was curled up, back against the closet door in his apartment. He'd dragged off the cowl, the symbol of his powers too hot and heavy, and sat with one arm wrapped tightly around his chest, the other hand clenching helplessly in his hair. He was barely aware of the blood that covered his hands and costume.

Wally had enough to focus on the present, but the past was dragging him back, relentlessly. It was instinct to take the same hiding place, the same protective position, the same guilt and failure and pain, as when he was a child.

In his head, Wally was nine-years-old again, watching his father, a big man with exhausted and furious eyes, yell and scream, shaking and punching the tiny redheaded child, blaming the boy for everything. Wally didn't know why his father was so angry, he tried to be good and quiet and not bother his dad, but he accepted every cutting word and bruising blow as his due. He must have done _something_ to make Dad hate him. And normally, Mommy stayed out of it. They both knew it was beter to let the man's rage run its course.

But this time, Dad was so loud, so mad, and Mommy's eyes were wide and scared. She was running forward, stepping in front of the cowering child, putting herself between her husband and his target. And there was a gun in Dad's big hands and Wally tried, but he was too slow. There was a sound, ugly and ripping everything, before crimson started soaking through Mom's shirt. She looked confused, unsure, and then she was falling.

Wally didn't remember reaching for her, running to her, hugging her as the body chilled. He didn't remember crying silently while his father raged through the house, breaking things, before leaving for the closest bar. He didn't remember the man coming back, stumbling around, or the cops breaking down the door, taking the gun, dragging Dad away. He didn't remember the policeman who put him in a car and drove him to the nearest orphanage, or the woman who helped him clean his hands and face, change his clothes into something that wasn't covered in drying, flaking red. He didn't remember anything, up until the moment that he found a closet and collapsed inside, one arm held close, the other in his hair, yanking and trying to feel any kind of pain besides the hole in his chest that said Mommy was gone and it was all his fault.

She should be alive, he should be dead.

And now, here he was again, a lifetime later. Everything was different, and everything was exactly the same.

Even when he was the fastest man alive, Wally _still_ wasn't fast enough.


	2. Pearls, Bruce

**Pearls**

Bruce was smiling as he draped the sparkling gift around Selina's graceful throat.

It wasn't a ring, but then he wasn't sure if she would accept one, should he offer. In a way, neither of the pair was sure they could take that step.

They both knew they belonged together. Who else would be the perfect challenge and support? The idea of marriage, though… Selina and Bruce had acknowledged to themselves, to each other, to all and sundry, that this was it for both of them. The final, the real, the best relationship.

Still, a wedding was not currently in the cards.

He pushed the thoughts away, brushing a kiss across the nape of her neck, above the clasp of this new present.

She purred and leaned back, trusting him so easily, against his chest. And over her shoulder, he looked at the picture they made in the mirror's reflection, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.

Then the emeralds caught the light, shining, gleaming, and the pain in his chest dissolved.

Rubies, diamonds, sapphires, garnets, and opals. Topaz and amethyst and lapis lazuli and quartz and agate. Emerald and jade in particular, because they so often matched her eyes. Every jewel imaginable was a gift for Selina.

Everything except pearls.

Bruce had too many nightmares of a broken string of pearls stained red in a wet, cold, broken Gotham night. He couldn't survive the sight of shimmering white orbs marred by Selina's blood.

Now, thought, Selina recognized the distance in Bruce's eyes, and straightened the necklace. She was spinning in his arms, smoothing out his tie, kissing him sweetly, forcing him back into the present.

And Bruce resolved, once again, that there would be no pearls for his Catwoman. Not ever.


	3. Kryptonite, Clark

**Kryptonite**

The truth was, it shocked him each and every time he would look across a battlefield of shattered buildings and wrecked cars and see that once-friendly face twisted in disgust and loathing.

In some ways, it was more painful to see the pale green glow in the man's hand, know that he held a familiar green crystal with the intent to use it, than it hurt to actually feel the strength and invulnerability draining from Superman's body.

Clark's memories of childhood were idyllic, he recognized that. He was raised in a small town in America, grew up with parents who loved him and expected him to work hard and be smart. And at his side in so many of the best memories was another boy, the same age, and he made everything better.

Lex was a sharp-witted, excitable kid, too smart for their tiny Kansas home. All of the crazy plans, all the pranks and jokes the pair pulled on the same school jocks that loved to pick on the weirdos, they were all Lex's ideas. And Clark was happy to help, to be a part of their juvenile revenge. He had been so grateful to have a friend who didn't care how strange "that Kent boy" was, and who cared when the school hierarchy would mock Clark, make fun of him.

They watched each other's backs, and they were the perfect pair. Lex always had a brilliant plot in the works, and when it went bad, like it so often did, Clark was surely far too polite and innocent to be a part of it. And if he said that the Luthor boy was with him when the locker that exploded on the school quarterback had been filled with paint, or the lineman's truck engine caught on fire, than they had to believe it, because Clark would never lie.

It had gone on like that for years, and they spent their summers planning for the future, for escaping this place that was too small for them, for their ambitions and their dreams.

But something changed. Somewhere along the line, all the ways Lex cared about Clark twisted. When Clark kept the Superboy thing from Lex, a gap was created. And it only grew, as Lex became more and more angry about the "self-righteous alien". With the way everyone was crowing about the teenage superhero, Lex pulled in on himself, becoming obsessed with proving that Superboy had an alterior motive, ignoring everything else in favor of that focus. And the gap grew to a chasm.

Now they were adults, and the best friend Clark could have asked for had become the worst enemy he faced. Now, the kryptonite hurt far less than the murderous hate he could see in the gaze of his arch nemesis.


	4. Family, Kyle

**Family**

It was a regular, boring day. No calls from the League, no emergencies to run and stop, and Kyle had just finished picking up some groceries.

He was crossing the street, thinking about the painting he was working on at home, trying to figure out how to finish off the background, when he saw him. And everything froze.

Tall, but with an expanding beer belly, an arrogant frown stretched across the forgettable face, wearing a black suit that didn't quite fit him, hair turning grey, eyes constantly irritated.

Kyle remembered him. Kyle hated him.

His parents had died when the artist was a baby, and he had no memories of them. What he did have memories of was being passed from place to place, home to home, person to person. No one wanted the kid who couldn't sit still and asked too many questions.

He was thirteen, sullen and angry, had given up on anyone wanting to keep him, when he'd ended up with Hank.

Hank Williams was a retired cop, and a good man. His wife had been dead five years, but he had welcomed the ungrateful teen into his home with a smile. Kind and stern, Hank was everything Kyle hadn't known he'd been looking for in a parent.

Hank had been the first person to see Kyle doodling on the edge of his homework and praised the sketch. He had gone out and bought the boy a pad of paper specifically for drawing, told him it was a talent he should master, that it could open doors. And Kyle had slowly started to trust the man, had begun to feel at home in the cozy house and the bedroom Hank said used to belong to his son.

Then the son came home. Ryan had lost his job, had stolen money from the company. He said the charges would never stick, and had wheedled that his father would pay for a good lawyer, if it did come to trial. Hank was smart, but where his son was concerned, he had a blind spot the size of the ocean. And soon, the bills for the legal counsel were coming in, and Ryan had "borrowed" his father's bank account, and Hank was being buried under the debts that his son was incurring.

He had been weary and sad when he pulled Kyle aside one evening and said that he wasn't sure he could keep taking care of the boy. Everything was crazy, and Hank was thinking he might have to go back to work.

Kyle tried to protest, said he wouldn't mind, but the man had already made his decision. He said it was for the best.

A year later, Hank Williams showed up in the local obituaries – dead of a heart attack at 57. He had been working shifts at a local car dealership and a supermarket for nine months, without a vacation. Survived by his son, Ryan, who "greatly mourned the loss". The loss that had netted him his father's life insurance, which the man cashed in, before leaving the state. He hadn't even shown up at Hank's funeral.

Kyle had, though. He took two buses to get there, and he was in jeans and a dark shirt, the best clothes he had, and he brought a picture of the man he remembered, smiling at life, placing it in the coffin the local police force had paid for. Hank's neighbors and the members of the church congregation he had attended bought the plot. And the county commissioner covered the cost of the headstone. Ryan hadn't paid for one damn thing.

But now, here they were, crossing each other in the street like strangers. The man probably didn't even remember the kid that had been staying with Hank.

He knew he should ignore it and walk on, that he was stronger than his anger.

But Hank was the closest thing Kyle had ever had to family, and this was the person who killed him. Not on purpose, maybe, but he had been the cause of Hank's death.

Carefully putting down the bags of food, Kyle tapped the passing man on the shoulder, waited until he had turned, a sneer firmly in place on that weak face, and slugged him as hard as he could.

Even calling Wally to come bail him out couldn't make Kyle regret that punch.


End file.
